


Filling a Need

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aphrodisiacs, Creampie, Developing Relationship, Drunk Sex, Glory Hole, Hanzo is mean to himself ; _ ;, M/M, NSFW Art, Public Sex, Will tag as needed just ask!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 04:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19166149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: Only when his need became unbearable, when the elders questioned his reliance on nightly sake, did he succumb.





	Filling a Need

**Author's Note:**

> This is an expansion of a previous kinktober fic, but it has been reworked and lengthened considerably and given a proper ending! Featuring very NSFW work by severeni! <3

It is one of Hanzo's greatest weaknesses. A predilection he cannot shake, a sensation lingering at the edges of waking thought and dream. He flushes each and every time he thinks of it, moreso when he can do nothing but think, his environment too dangerous, too exposed to surrender to his mortifying, secret indulgence.

As scion, it had been his only reprieve. Only when his need became unbearable, when the elders questioned his reliance on nightly sake, did he succumb.

There were no serious dalliances. No one could know who he was. The clan’s ascendant son would tie up his hair, don clothes that made him just one of thousands on the streets of Hanamura. He slipped away hours after dusk, a tawdry use of skills honed by the very ones he longed to escape. Each time the location was different, a bar, a nightclub. Most had what he sought. He shifted through the crowds to a place where the thrumming music softened, the air still and stifling, the lights dimmed to a nightmarish glow. There was no disguising why he was here, the soft moans of other patrons fattening his cock against his worn slacks, the cheap fabric clinging like a second skin.

He sank to his knees. They could only see his mouth, lips pursed and full, presented. He never waited long. They didn't care who he was, would never know the person licking the length of their cock eagerly was scion to the city's clan. Like this, he was just another wet, warm hole that slaked their salacious urges, a nameless slut who didn't care to know them or their faces.

Years later, at the onset of a changing world, thousands of miles away from his home and awash with grief and devastating, terrifying hope, Hanzo needs it. The one thing that lets him be used, an object that submits and receives without question. Several, wonderful minutes of mindlessness, more if he’s lucky, if another replaces the last sated cock, growling his thanks through the thin plastic barrier.

He had done kata with little reprieve, drank alone in his cramped room until his mind buzzed unpleasantly. A walk, then. Some air. He rises unsteadily, wanders into the old, defunct east wing of the watchpoint, looking absently for an exit.

He must’ve missed the placard, every door along the hallway the same nondescript metal. His eyes meet cool title, a row of urinals, two stalls. He swallows heavily and heads to the sink, splashes water on his face, closes his eyes until his vision clears.

By boon or bad fortune, he spots it as he turns, the world slowing, stretching a moment into a long, harrowing eternity.

It is discreet, in the last stall in the corner, perfectly round, fitted with a leather lining.

Hanzo does not let himself investigate. He does not complete his walk. He does not remember returning to his room.

He also doesn't sleep that night or the next, only stares, drunk and delirious, at the ceiling.

It is the third night that breaks him. His thoughts cycle sickeningly, a burning, unstoppable curiosity. No one could possibly use it. It is a relic of bygone days, overlooked when Overwatch reclaimed the base.

It does not stop him from checking, from slipping into seiza in that last, incriminating stall. The floor is clean. Dust rests on the paper dispensers. The hole sits perfectly level with his mouth. He does not know how long he lingers, how long he stays flushed and lost in memories, cock tenting his gi. It's almost as good, Hanzo thinks, when he can bear it no longer. When he reaches into his robes and brings himself off with a few, slow jerks, memories like hands against every part of him.

He tucks himself back into his clothes, catches his breath, waits until the world stops spinning. As he rises and leans against the stall to steady himself, he spots his reflection in the mirror. Hair messy, lips swollen from his teeth, flush prominent on his cheeks, stubborn and unfading.

It's enough, he tells himself.

* * *

 

It becomes his only outlet once more. Safer, at least, than it had been. He's older, and the act less destructive, a harmless fantasy lived out on his knees and in his mind.

He sits beneath the blinding, sterile lights and closes his eyes, imagines a thrumming baseline in another room, a hot, hard thing in his mouth. Sometimes they would not move an inch, made him do all the work, and he did so eagerly, hands fisted into the cloth at his thighs, moaning, breathing through the ache in his jaw, the stretch of his throat as he swallowed and sucked.

Hanzo doesn’t touch himself every time. Some nights they left him wanting and aching, his own pleasure woefully, deliciously secondary. On others, he waits until he returns to his room, barely able to keep himself decent, red-faced and gi tented, fixated with singular abandon. No thoughts about the clan. His brother. The future.

Nothing but the ache low in his belly, begging for attention.

* * *

 

One night, four cups of sake in and need like lips against his nape, an idea takes form.

Hanzo had held onto them from the old days. Why, he could not say, but they are the only gift he had received through the wall that was not of flesh and sweat.

Blue pills, perfectly round. Innocuous like candy.

_"One of these, baby, ‘n you'll be moaning all night."_

The lull in missions, halted for a U.N. meeting that would decide the fate of the newly reformed Overwatch, bites beneath his skin, sinks into his bones. Genji’s master had offered him a chance to talk, should he need it, but...talking isn’t what Hanzo wants. More inaction, pandering, cyclical drivel that he cannot stomach.

He chases a pill with a hard pull of sake.

* * *

 

Hanzo doesn't feel anything until he's seated in the dusty stall. It's more than the location, the position this time, doesn't usually shake him to his core so soon. The shameful acts he performed glow in his mind, tighten his nipples, cock a hard, straining line against fundoshi. Everything feels close. Hot. He drags rough hands over his chest, catching the hardened peaks of his nipples, giving one a harsh squeeze that makes him bite off a moan.

He never really knows if he has privacy here, but it is almost preferred. He floats in the buzz, the warm, heady prickle, absently uncapping the small vial he keeps for when a hand on his cock is not enough. Hanzo never dared to offer up anything other than hands and mouth, afraid, always afraid, even nameless and faceless. He tugs open his gi, loosening his fundoshi in a few, quick pulls, leaning forward, the position comfortable enough to wiggle his slickened fingers between his cheeks.

A place no one has ever touched besides himself, but he had been thorough in his explorations. Only fingers when he was young, afraid of even that. Later, on the run, he tried toys, whatever throwaway thing he could find when he trusted no one and despised himself and any who cast their eyes his way.

He slides a finger inside now, not curling, not yet, enjoying the pleasant almost burn of it, more tender with the drug in his blood, a mild, persistent thundering. Each press is a little warmer, plusher; his tongue swells in his mouth, another finger sliding in next to the first. A shaky sigh, grinding and curling, barely grazing the spot that he really wants. The tease is a part of it. At any moment, a cock could press through the hole and his own pleasure would shift, unable to finger himself properly when his mouth was rudely claimed by a nameless patron—

The door to the restroom creaks open.

Hanzo quiets mid-moan, or at least he tries to, the sound clawing at his throat. The silence is deafening, his heart slamming so hard he wonders if he's having a reaction, that he'll have to be dragged to med bay wasted and delirious from an old pill he had so thoughtlessly taken from a stranger.

Footsteps. Hanzo can’t move, he can’t breathe, only trembles around the fingers lodged in his body, a vile notion rising to the forefront of this insanity. Cornered. Exposed.

A jingle to each step. Sweat rolls down his temple. He could recognize that sound, that gait anywhere. Tall and brutish and Genji's best friend. That easy, lopsided smile, his smoky words. The stall adjacent swings open with a creak. Hanzo’s trapped, aching, wanting, mouth half-parted like so many years ago.

The stalls don't touch the floor, revealing his presence. Incriminating him. The clatter of metal, a belt unbuckling, the hum of a zipper.

He’s hallucinating. The pill and sake interacted badly and he’s laying passed out somewhere and this is all a terrible dream playing out in violent hyperrealism. What else could explain the veined cock slotting through the hole inches from his face? The circumcision scar partway down his cock shocks him, the rest a bright, ruddy red, the faintest hint of moisture beading at its tip. Its huge and heavy, drooping from its own weight. Who would enter the restroom like this?

Who, unless they knew someone would be here and waiting?

It takes all his restraint to not make a sound. Did he capture Hanzo on another occasion, moaning into the emptiness of the room while he stuffed his fingers inside him and yearned?

He bites on his tongue and exhales through his nose, face burning beneath the bright lights. Could he look the gunslinger in the eye and not think of the time he sucked down his cock like a prized offering? If those genial, wondering eyes turned dismissive..disgusted...

Hanzo smells him, sweat and salt and leather. It throbs while he watches, stupid and shaking, his breath warming it, making it twitch.

Dazed, helpless, burning through. Hanzo closes the space.

He tastes the gunslinger, musky with a faint bitterness, familiar and not, sweltering against the tip of his tongue. His own body thrums like a livewire, cock straining against his disheveled underclothes, one hand clenched on his thigh, the other reaching for the heavy, tightened curve of McCree’s balls. The gunslinger huffs, low and rumbling, a gentle lilt in the affirmative as Hanzo opens to him. It’s a sound Hanzo will remember in his dreams, makes his hand twitch against his leg, aching to draw inward.

He wants to close his eyes. He wants to pretend he doesn’t know whose cock he’s taking in his mouth, shallow, languid slides that stop right where he’s scarred. He wants to pretend he won’t imagine each and every small, satisfied groan the gunslinger gives him later, that he won’t bring himself off to it again and again when he retreats into his own solitude.

"Thassit, darlin'. You feel so good."

Hanzo nearly chokes, a furious shame flaring through him as motions stumble. Stupid, like he hasn’t heard something similar a thousand times before by strangers getting off from the sound of their own voice. His eyes narrow into slits, not quite willing to close completely, not when he can see a slice of the soft, furred stomach of the man on the other side, the rough thatch of pubes still inches from his mouth, tantalizing, a challenge.

The gunslinger is bigger than most, but Hanzo can take it as he had done before, with shame and stubborn, flickering pride. He relaxes his throat, tongue cradling McCree’s cock as he swallows around him, breathing on the withdraw, short, unsteady pauses that dizzy his thoughts and crowd his vision and he’s almost able to forget who the gunslinger is except for the quiet string of affirmations and praise drifting in gentle litany over the stall.

“God, that’s it. Where’ve you been?” McCree whispers, hard and a little breathless, a gentle tilt to his hips that forces his cock just a little deeper. “You’re killin’ me, sugar…”

Hanzo moans, startled, his own cock giving a dangerous throb, the tips of his ears burning.

“I wanna fuck you so bad...”

With shocking, delirious dread, Hanzo realizes he wants that too, wants to give this not stranger who he would never be able to look in the eye again everything. Wants to know if the gunslinger would fuck him rudely or if he would make Hanzo do all the work, get his cock milked while he leaned back and enjoyed the show—

He draws off McCree’s cock, suckling the tip as he shakily unknots his obi, hands useless and clumsy, trapped between soft, wet sounds and the gunslinger’s uneven breathing. He stands, turns around. He lets his pants drop to his feet, rucks his gi up to rest along his sweaty lower back. Breathes, bends forward, braces one, trembling hand on the stall in front of him, the other fishing between his legs, fingers messily working himself open an inch from the cock that waits for service. The silence is unbearable: only labored breathing and the quiet squelch of him fucking himself open.

Perhaps Hanzo doesn't give himself prep, but he cannot handle the tension, the sizzling of his nerves, needing escape. The touch to McCree's cock is clumsy, but the man hisses even so, low and delicious. He angles his ass up, presses his cock against his hole, drags an oiled hand down McCree’s shaft once, twice, until his fingers glide without catching. No time to think, no time to back down, time only to square up and take it. He breathes out, a shaky, pathetic sound, a facsimile of relaxation, and presses back, holding the base of the gunslinger’s cock to keep it steady.

There's resistance, of course there is. How could there not be, with its size, with Hanzo’s relative inexperience. He's only breached an inch or so before he stumbles, feeling overfull before he’s begun. His heart races, McCree’s cock just brushing his prostate, his sweaty hand slips along heated metal of the stall in front of him.

“Easy. There’s no rush.”

It batters him. Burns every last thought he has with embarrassing swiftness. He slathers more lube on McCree's cock with sloppy, shaking fingers and bears down, an ache settling so deliciously he nearly cries. Sweat bites at his skin, pleasure trembling in his guts. Perhaps he could've had this earlier if he hadn't been such a coward—McCree shifts his hips, and the last inch sinks inside, both groaning, the cowboy even louder. The only thing keeping Hanzo upright is his hand on the stall, his legs jellied and quaking beneath him.

"Very nice...it’s all in, darlin’. You’re so tight.”

Hanzo’s cock hangs heavy and fat between his legs, pre dripping onto the tile. He's afraid to look at his own stomach, wondering if he'd be able to see McCree through his skin.

"Fuck me, won't ya..."

The words shiver along his skin, and Hanzo starts to move, the suckling catch ricocheting through his body, staggering like a punch. He won't be able to walk tomorrow, might have to limp from the restroom that very night. How would he even escape? Would he have to wait for the gunslinger to zip up and leave while he catches his breath and wills his body to stop aching for more?

He swallows a groan, fucks back on McCree's cock, bracing against the stall to lead his thrusts, the shift and pull going smooth and sweet as he acclimates, eyes rolling back in his head.

"Jus like that. Oh, babe, you're doing things to me."

Hanzo chokes, catches the sound in his throat, the deep, impossible ache building with the tension in his skull. He would burst, spill all over his clothes at his feet, a useless mess from nothing but a cock in his ass and the gunslinger's encouragement drifting on the air.

Perhaps the gunslinger realizes, either from his quickening thrusts or his muffled sounds, because he starts to move, snapping forward, fucking into him, the stalls rattling furiously. Hanzo’s so close, temples throbbing, legs quivering—

“Oh, fuck, Hanzo—“

_Art by[@severeni](https://twitter.com/severeninaughty)._

Hanzo claps a hand over his mouth and wails, each muscle locking up, the gunslinger pistoning into him, groaning like an animal, his vision blackening as he starts to cum, long, agonizing pulses, unable to work his own cock or risk falling, trapped by the gunslinger’s brusk, ever quickening thrusts and his orgasm throbbing through him. Not even his palm can disguise his sounds, pained, needy, pathetic things, impossibly loud. It feels endless, mind scraped clean, wildly empty, peaceful until the gunslinger slows with a swear. Then Hanzo’s empty, shockingly empty, no energy to turn, to see, aftershocks still twisting through his body.

“God, I wanna touch you. Please, Han…lemme…”

And there’s something rough and calloused against his backside, squeezing, pulling, feeling him up, McCree’s hand, too much, he knows he knows he _KNOWS_ —but Hanzo can’t stop shivering, can’t stop wanting. The sake—the drug—the gunslinger—

He slumps, crumpling to his knees on top of his discarded clothes, breathing deep to ease the tremors.

“Turn over, Han, c’mere.” He’s never heard the gunslinger like this before, voice rough, tinged with desperation, he’s kneeling too, hands grasping at him from beneath the stall, McCree’s cock still blood heavy and dripping between his half-exposed thighs.

“Fuck,” Hanzo whispers, low and pained, punctuated by a sharp inhale as the gunslinger all but tugs Hanzo by this thighs beneath the stall, enough that he’s half on his back, legs bracketing McCree’s hips. Hanzo is no slip of a man, and the way McCree tugs him onto his lap has him reeling, his cock half-hard and shining, pills or situation or McCree, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care.

He can’t see his face, only his soft, flexing stomach, the shaking hand planting on his own hip, his other harriedly lining up his cock, nudging it against where Hanzo’s still slick and wanting—

The angle isn’t quite right, limited positioning, but the gunslinger moves all the same, rocking his hips in slow, jerking drags that have Hanzo gasping into his hand again, teeth clenched to keep himself quiet. A trial of insanity, harsh grunts tear from his throat all the same, the deep-seated fucking bringing him sharp and almost painfully to the edge again.

If only he could—Hanzo snakes his hand down his feverish stomach, dark hair slick with sweat, captures his cock in his fist, not fully hard but leaking against his thigh, only for his hand to be immediately replaced by McCree’s own.

“Lemme take care of you.” He strokes his thumb just beneath his glans, a quick, practiced flick of the wrist. Hanzo thrashes against it, groaning brokenly. “Lemme hear you…”

“M-McCree—” He means to chastise, to tell him to shut up, to stop tearing his resolve to pieces, and there’s a loud thump, the gunslinger’s head against the stall, a swear so deep Hanzo doesn’t even know what he’s saying, only that McCree’s rocking into him in long, shaking shoves, a single, broken groan following the warm rush flooding his insides.

He’s buried inside, their hips locked together as the gunslinger brings him off, the world white-edged and ringing as Hanzo goes limp.

When is mind returns, piece by piece, there’s a soft, quiet sound, McCree humming under his breath, his hands sliding along Hanzo’s thighs and hips in soothing circles. He’s gently tucked back into his pants, Hanzo’s lower body twinging and perhaps a bit swollen, but not messy. A pause.

“You ok?”

Hanzo works his jaw around the answer, a cotton-thick heaviness settling behind his eyes.

“I...I am not sure,” and it’s quieter, hoarser than he expects.

“Can I...can I see you?” And then in a rush. “Lemme walk you back to yer room. Least I could do.”

Hanzo has no idea how his body manages to make his cheeks hot for the hundredth time that night, but it does. He slowly extricates himself from beneath the stall, missing immediately the hands that do not let him go until he’s out of reach. His breathing is nearly under control when he tugs up his zubon and clumsily knots his obi, aching just as he thought he would, clothes awkward and incriminatingly damp.

His eyes fall to a white, wrinkled button up when Hanzo gathers enough courage to open the stall door. He’s sure he looks as strange as he feels, heated and shivery, hair tousled and gi tugged sloppily over his shoulders, he’s a fucking mess—

Gentle pressure at his chin stops him mid-thought. Hanzo follows the gesture to its end, looks into McCree’s face, expecting, well—not what he sees. The gunslinger sweaty and more disheveled than usual, the flush on his cheeks revealing freckles that Hanzo had not noticed before.

“I know that type of thing is supposed to be...anonymous but..well, not much guessin’ here.” He smiles a bit too wide, a potent mix of uncouth nervousness, and pleased `unrepentence. “I, uh,” Hanzo feels the tenseness in his shoulders lessen. “I really enjoyed it, you’re good, and I...I’ll stop talkin’ now.”

“That would be wise,” Hanzo says with a small smile.

“Right.”

It is a quiet, somewhat awkward walk to Hanzo’s room, especially with soreness settling in, his drunkenness mostly abated but a certain haze clinging to him, quiet and stubborn. Hanzo blames it when McCree’s hand brushes his own and he curls their fingers together, a new, gentle giddiness settling in his guts when the gunslinger tightens his grip, keeping even pace with him.


End file.
